


I'll Meet You In The City

by DistortedDaytime



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 03:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10845342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistortedDaytime/pseuds/DistortedDaytime
Summary: Nick's soulmate has always been far away...that is, until he's not.





	I'll Meet You In The City

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tdtori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tdtori/gifts).



Sergei gets in the car and slides into the passenger seat without waiting for Nick’s okay, which, fine, it’s not like he needs to ask, at this point, but a little warning would’ve been nice.

"Drive," he says softly, not quite a command.

Um. "Gotta give me a little more than that, bud," says Nick, but he starts the car anyway. "Where'm I going?"

Sergei’s eyes are fixed on the dashboard. “I’m not want to go back to that empty place, so we go home? To your house.”

Something curls warm and welcome in Nick’s gut at that. “Sure, buddy. We can go home.”

*

Nick's mark is never clear growing up, not like Marcus’s and certainly nothing like his parents’. All through juniors it’s nothing but an unfinished stretch of numbers on his palm, 53º45’34.54”N in blurry red along his lifeline. Longitude, maybe latitude, he can never remember which is which, and besides, it doesn’t matter. A fucked up number like that, barely readable and incomplete, means his soulmate is far, far away.

He tries not to think about it and it works, mostly. It’s all but out of his mind by draft day when Ottawa takes him...not late but not notably early, and it’s fine. It’s good. It’s _awesome,_ or it will be once he makes it to the show, and it is. It really fuckin’ is.

The number on his palm doesn’t change.

*

He wakes up sweaty in the middle of the night, tangled in too-clean sheets at a nameless hotel in Philly the night before they play the Flyers. Nick's hand doesn't - it's not pain, not really, more like pins and needles, like something pressing into his skin. Groaning, he rolls over, and goes still. His mark is getting clearer, and more numbers, emerge onto his palm, deliberate, thoughtful. 

It’s complete when he wakes up the next morning. 53º45’34.54”N, 87º6’35.64”E, his soulmate’s birthplace, wherever the hell that is.

*

Their drives become a regular thing as the shortened season ramps up faster and more exhausting than what they’d prepared for.

Sometimes they listen to music, other times they're quiet, but more and more they talk. Navigating one language would be bad enough; trying to turn Sergei's improving English and Nick's godawful Russian into an actual conversation feeling like tiptoeing through a minefield, so some nights Nick just rambles. Soulmates, right? Sergei won't judge the time he filled Marcus's skates with jelly or how much he still misses his mother. He doesn’t make that godawful ‘I don’t know what to say’ face most people make when they don’t know how to deal with someone else’s grief. Sergei listens.

"Do you think-"

"I try not to," Nick interrupts, and regrets it immediately. "Shit. Sorry, I'm- sorry. Go on."

Sergei laughs, quiet like he’s not really surprised. “I’m think...it’s like a contract. Loving someone, I mean. You love, you agree to good things, happy times, but also how much it hurt when they are not there anymore. You say yes to both.”

His eyes are so blue under the passing streetlights. Nick nods, and reaches for Sergei’s hand.

*

“Hey. Foligno.”

The last thing Nick wants to hear on his way out of Wells Fargo after a stupid 5-1 loss is one of the Flyers calling his name. He heaves a heavy sigh and turns around. The sooner he gets this shit over with, the sooner he can go back to ottawa.

“Wha- oh. Zherdev. Awesome. Make it quick, I’ve got a bus to catch.”

Nick can’t for the life of him fathom why Nikolay fucking Zherdev is outside on a chilly November night looking for him, especially not with the Flyers’ new wonder-goalie standing just behind him and staring too intently at Nick.

The goalie - Bobrovsky, Nick’s brain supplies - says something in Russian and Zherdev nods before looking back at Nick.

“Seryozha says you’re his soulmate,” says Zherdev, calm as can be.

Nick scoffs. “Okay, that’s cute and all, but keep the pranks in your own locker room, okay? Tell Carter and Richards haha, very funny, you got me good.”

Zherdev looks heavenward for a second, then says something to Bobrovsky, who comes closer, hand out. Dimly Nick can see red numbers on his palm, but he doesn’t look too closely. Sure. Whatever. The sooner he humors them the sooner he can get the fuck out of Philly, so Nick holds his hand up, touches it to Bobrovsky’s, and-

It’s not the lightning bolt surety Nick always expected. Instead it’s a candle’s warm glow: steadfast, honest, and true. Holy shit it’s real, his soulmate is _here-_

“Fligs! Hey, Fligs, you comin’ or what?” yells Fish, and it jerks Nick back to reality. Fuck.

“I gotta…” He can’t look away from Bobrovsky - no, Sergei, he’s calling his soulmate by his _name,_ damnit - “Tell him I gotta go.”  
  
Zherdev translates, Sergei nods, Fish yells again, and it’s too much to process any sort of heartfelt goodbye.  
  
*

"Is my fault."

"It's not your fault," says Nick for what feels like the hundredth time since they found out Richards got the axe. "There's five other guys out there who fucked up and weren't helping you like we were supposed to. It's on all of us."

"Yes, but I'm have one job! One! To stop pucks, not-"

Sergei's English breaks, and wow, Nick's Russian still isn't great outside of locker room stuff but he knows _those_ words, and they're done talking about this now.

"Don't- _say_ that about yourself. Look...it’s bad, okay, yes, it’s bad, this whole year-” Nick breaks off with a frustrated sigh and runs his hands through his hair. “The C’s on me, but it doesn’t mean shit without everyone else, and there’s no one I trust more in net than you, okay? No one.”

Sergei’s face does something strange and then his mouth is on Nick’s. He tastes like black tea and toothpaste, the angles are wrong and it’s not all that comfortable, but Nick would drown in it and die happy.

They kiss until Nick’s out of breath and Sergei’s face is covered in beard burn. “Nick…” Sergei starts, but Nick cuts him off.

“Listen, I know the timing was shitty, but I’m not sorry that just happened.”

Sergei gives him a level stare. “I was going to ask if you stay for dinner, maybe get pizza?” His face softens. “I’m not sorry either.”

*

Nick gets the news on a humid June day, halfway through a lazy round of golf that lost its appeal once their beer ran out. Everybody knows they’re getting locked out next season so of course the front offices are scrambling around like chickens with their heads cut off. It’s not like it’s a shock; Philly likes to do stupid shit where their goalies are involved and they just signed Bryzgalov to some major money, so that made Sergei expendable.

Nick bristles at the thought. It’s not like they _know_ each other, really, but it’s the principle. Sergei’s his soulmate, even if they only see each other a few times a year and communicate best over text messages crammed with the dumbest memes Nick can find. Fuck Philly, anyway. They’ll get theirs.

He finishes the game, goes home, and starts to pack, waiting for the call.

When it comes less than a week later, telling him he’s been traded to Columbus, Nick already has his flight booked.

*

Sergei’s hands are surer than Nick expected, fingers confident on the inside of his thighs.

He’s thought about this moment, sure he has, mostly in movie-perfect flashes of scenery that deserve an Oscar for cinematography. None of them counted on Sergei being...good at this, calm, a little bossy, and so himself it makes Nick’s heart hurt.

“You like that?”  
  
Face hot, bottom lip between his teeth, Nick nods.

*

There’s winning, which is awesome, and then there’s this...this...batshit, beautiful, almost unreal high because they keep. Fucking. Winning. Torts preaches patience and consistency, tells them to play their game right up to the moment the veneer cracks and his eyes burn red-hot with pride.

Nick whoops, and meets Sergei’s eyes, arms already outstretched for the hug. They won _again_ , fuck yeah they did, and his soulmate is backstopping them to some truly beautiful hockey. What more can a guy ask for?

“You can ask me for anything,” Sergei whispers to him, wrapped up in Nick’s arms for that one glorious moment.

“What?” Nick whispers back, all too aware there are cameras and mics and too many nosy people around.

It’s symbiosis, or something. Emotional symbiosis. God that’s weird.

“Anything,” Sergei repeats, and skates off to salute the crowd with the rest of the team.

*

Sergei doesn’t say anything when they get to Nick’s house. He’s got his Thinking Face on, the one Nick likes to tease him for because it never fails to make Sergei’s eyes light up right before he gives in and laughs. Today, though, Nick doesn’t mention it.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on, Bobs?” he asks softly once they get inside.

This time he gets half a second of warning before Sergei kisses him and it’s all the time Nick needs to part his lips and open his arms in welcome.

*

The first thing Sergei says when he slides into the car is, "Drive."

Nick blinks. "Uh."

They’ve both been in Columbus less than a week, scrambling to get ready for the lockout-shortened season while they acclimate to a new team, a new city, and actually getting to talk in person.

"Drive," Sergei repeats. "Please."

Nick drives.


End file.
